


The Lightning That Strikes Relentless

by stumblinginthestars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, a small amount of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:14:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stumblinginthestars/pseuds/stumblinginthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on the tumblr prompt: <br/>"We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?" <br/>An elongated, slightly more dramatic than necessary sigh rolls from between Dean’s lips as they pull to a stop in a patch of dirt off the side of the road. The loud thunks of fat raindrops hitting the car are the only sounds as Dean shuts off the engine. He looks over at Castiel now that it’s safe to do so and is rewarded by seeing the faintest hint of a smile touching at the corners of the angel’s lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lightning That Strikes Relentless

                The Impala fishtails for the second time as Dean drives through the blinding rain, windshield wipers going at top speed. His grip on the wheel tightens marginally and he squints as he drives, trying to see the road through the blankets of rain, but only manages to get a peek every few minutes when a flash of lightning illuminates the bleak, barren landscape around them and the highway that seems to go on forever before them. Castiel, who has been either silent or napping for a majority of the past three hours of their little road trip—heading to a small town in Utah on a ghost hunt—sits up straight in his chair as the boom of thunder shakes the ground beneath the Impala’s spinning tires.

                “Can we pull over?” he asks, peering out the windshield as if he will be able to see something.

                Dean frowns over at him before quickly looking back to the road. “What? Now?” he grouses, irritated at having to drive slower than seventy miles per hour due to the torrential downpour that had started somewhere during the last half of their drive through New Mexico. It also doesn’t help squinting so hard to see has given Dean a headache. The two were coming from a vamp hunt in Texas where Sam had gotten a slight concussion. After convincing Sam to sit this next hunt out, Dean had said they’d be there and back within four days, but the unexpected storm had botched his plans.

                “Yes, please,” Castiel responds and Dean can feel the man fixing him with that blue-eyed stare.

                “Dude, we’ve got, like, two more hours till we get there. Can’t you wait to stretch your wings till then?”

                “My wings are not technically part of my physical being; they are manifestations that I can summon when necessary. I don’t need to stretch them.” Castiel’s voice sounds like he is furrowing his eyebrows.

                “Well then, why do you need me to pull over?” Dean whines, looking to Castiel momentarily. “Last I checked, since you got your grace back, you don’t need potty breaks anymore.”

                The car jerks from drifting across the center lane and driving over a small pot hole. Dean seizes the wheel, jerking it to get back over when he sees that they are in the wrong damn lane. The car lurches to the right with the wheel and Dean feels Castiel’s hand gripping his arm tightly as the vehicle hydroplanes for a few terrifying seconds. Dean fights the urge to slam the breaks or overcorrect himself again as the car uncontrollably slips off the road and onto the shoulder, bumping on the gravel and dirt where it is able to gain traction again. Castiel’s grip loosens as Dean slowly presses back down on the gas pedal once more, directing the tires back to the road. “Maybe you should drive slower,” Castiel’s voice is tinged with worry he tries to mask. Dean nods with understanding; they figured out quickly that Castiel’s grace being back lacked a lot of its old perks. No more flying due to broken wings or zapping out of harm’s way, it takes him a little more effort to get a good smite on, and he has to sleep now to recharge after doing almost anything with his powers.

                They pass a large sign that Dean _thinks_ says they have entered Utah. He looks at his dash and groans. The speed gauge reads fifty miles per hour. They may arrive in Bountiful, Utah in three to four _days_ at this rate.

                After a few minutes of silence used to get his heart rate down from blinding, I’m-gonna-crash panic to normal, Dean asks again, “So, why do you want me to pull over?”

                “I would like to feel the rain.” Castiel muses, finally releasing Dean’s arm.

                If Dean hadn’t just nearly died from taking his eyes off the road, he would be fixing his friend with his best what-the-hell face right now. “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?” he gawps, already starting to angle the car off the road.

                “Yes,”

                An elongated, slightly more dramatic than necessary sigh rolls from between Dean’s lips as they pull to a stop in a patch of dirt off the side of the road. The loud thunks of fat raindrops hitting the car are the only sounds as Dean shuts off the engine. He looks over at Castiel now that it’s safe to do so and is rewarded by seeing the faintest hint of a smile touching at the corners of the angel’s lips.

                “Thank you, Dean,” he says with a small tip of his head.

                Dean smiles lightly at Castiel for a moment. Then the fallen angel pushes open his door and a swirl of cold air hits Dean’s face along with a few rain drops. Dean expects Castiel to hold his hands out of the car or maybe even stick out his tongue the way children do to catch a few droplets. Instead, Castiel exits the vehicle, closing the door behind him. Dean watches as him move away from the car, the heavily falling rain making him harder to see already even though he’s only five feet away. Castiel is standing in the dark gloom of the rainfall, hands out, palms up at his waist and face tilted towards the heavens. The sparse patches of grass move around his feet and his coat flutters around his legs from the wind. The heavy rain is weighing down the coat and Dean sighs, opening his door to stand on the floorboard and peer over the car.

                “Cas!” he calls loudly above the whistling wind and pounding rain.

                The angel looks over to Dean as a faraway bolt of lightning casts a bright light over the entire world around them. The lightning strike lasts a second, but Dean’s mind sees everything in slow-motion. Castiel’s raven hair is plastered to his forehead and the nape of his neck, a few rebellious curls still sticking out despite their being drenched. The wind can no longer move his rain-heavy coat and it is heavy on his shoulders, soaking through to his other layers of clothing. The lightning shines in Castiel’s eyes and makes his blue irises as clear as the water of the Weddell Sea, as though they are made of stained glass. A rare smile pulls at his lips and Dean knows that it’s just for him. The bright white flash of teeth and the crinkles around his eyes are for him. _For Dean._

                He swallows, letting the explosive sound of thunder pass before continuing, “What are you doing?”

                “Isn’t it magnificent, Dean?” Castiel raises his voice back, tilting his head back again, letting the rain splash across his face. “Come out here!”

                “You’re crazy!”

                Castiel chuckles and Dean finds himself stepping down from his perch and into the mud. He closes his car door before gravitating towards Castiel. He shivers as the rain begins soaking through his jacket. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, coming to a stop a foot from Castiel. The angel’s eyes are closed, but he senses Dean’s presence because his voice is at its usual volume when he says, “Rain is wonderful. It brings life. Many cultures and religions view it as a good omen.”

                Dean nods, tipping his head back and squinting into the rain. The cold drops are slightly soothing on his head in the midst of his building headache. His eyelids flutter to keep the droplets out of his eyes. He gives up and closes his eyes, too. “Yeah, I’ve heard if it rains on your wedding day it’s s’posed to be good luck.”

                “I like the feeling of rain. It washes away mistakes and brings a new day. It feels like a miracle.” Castiel’s voice is far away. “I haven’t felt the rain like this in quite some time.”

                Dean opens his eyes and looks over at Castiel. Really looks at him. Castiel opens his eyes and gazes back at Dean, nothing separating them save for the sheets of rain. And Dean watches rivers trailing from the man’s thick, brown hair, rolling down his face to drip from his chin. And he sees the ever-present circles under his eyes that make him look like he always needs a cup of coffee. And the black eyelashes framing his galaxy-deep eyes. And Dean feels his own face relaxing from its always guarded, emotionless frown and pulling into a shy smile. Because Castiel is beautiful.

                “Me either,” he mutters, a shiver running down his spine and he can’t tell if it’s from the gust of cold wind or from the man standing before him.

                “Are you cold?” Castiel asks, tipping his head to the side.

                “No, I’m fine. ‘S not that bad.” Dean tries to lie, but his body betrays him and his teeth chatter slightly. He realizes belatedly that his clothes are soaked to the bone. His jacket, over-shirt, tee, jeans, boxers—all sopping wet.

                Castiel steps towards Dean and their eyes lock. And it’s like every other time before, but it’s different because they’re not with Sam or on a time schedule; they’re completely alone and Dean thinks his heartbeat can be heard over the storm. Castiel shifts closer and Dean can see the miniscule droplets of water collecting on the angel’s lashes only to splash off with a quick blink. Dean’s breath is visible in between them, hovering in the air like this unspoken _thing_ that is going on right now… This thing that, if Dean is honest with himself, has been going on between them for the past six years. Castiel’s hand is on his shoulder and it’s in that moment that Dean’s mind screams from fear of commitment and Castiel and _feelings_ and whatever this warm, tightness in his chest is and he pulls back slightly with a cough. “We should, uh, get back to the road… If you’re done with the, uh, with the rain?”

                Castiel’s hand drops and the soft look on his face flashes with emotions far too close to embarrassment and hurt for Dean’s liking, but before he can get a good read on it, Castiel’s face is managed back to its usual neutral—if not slightly confused—state. “I’m finished. I believe the next town is coming up soon. You should rest. You have been driving all day.” Castiel says as they trudge back through the mud.

                Dean nods and they slip back in the car. Dean cranks the heat on in the car and they drive for a mile or two before he notices that it isn’t working and is only blowing cool air at him. He cuts it off with a shaky hand and a sigh. He feels Castiel’s big, blue eyes on him and ignores them. “Dean?” Castiel asks and— again—Dean ignores him, moving his hand to turn on the radio. He picks up nothing but static for a few minutes and inwardly bemoans his lost cassette collection before landing on a station that only has a few crackles of white noise in the backdrop. The radio plays a commercial advertising engine oil and Dean welcomes the background noise with relief even though it eggs on his headache. Sure, it’s immature to ignore Castiel due to his own panicky emotions, but this is what he does. Push his feelings down. Stuff them into the dark, overfilling Bermuda Triangle of feelings in the back of his mind and ignore them. He shivers as he drives, thanking God when the rain dies down to a drizzle outside and he can see the road. A small town comes into view amidst the horizon suddenly looming with mountains and Castiel looks up from a map he has pulled from the console, saying the little place is called Moab. Dean grunts to acknowledge him and winces at his friend’s small, annoyed sigh. They drive through the small town that, despite it being close to midnight, is twinkling like a Christmas tree. The street is decorated in dripping strings of white lights and southwest décor, colorful neon advertising each unique bar and shop. Dean watches wonder and joy flash in Castiel’s eyes as the angel takes in the small town, wrenching his gaze away before pulling into the first motel he spots.

                Dean parks in one of the last available stalls under the pink and turquoise sign reading “The Mountainside Inn” and he and Castiel step out into the lightly misting rain. Dean sees that it is eleven-fifty and he hopes the front desk is still open for check-in. He trudges inside to the front desk, leaving Cas to grab their small duffels.

                “One room for tonight?” he asks the twenty-something behind the pale yellow counter adorned with small cacti plants and brochures offering discounts on mountain climbing tours.

                “Alright…” the boy yawns, tapping away at the computer. He glares at the screen before stating, “You got the last one. Room one-oh-six.”

                “Thanks,” Dean replies tiredly as he rubs his temples, feeling the throbbing of his quickly escalating headache.

                Castiel appears at his side from outside and he takes his bag from the angel. He doesn’t notice the accidental brush of their hands in the exchange. Maybe a little. He coughs awkwardly, adjusting his strap on his shoulder.

                “Are you guys in town for the festival?” the boy asks conversationally.

                “No, we’re just passing through,” Dean mumbles wearily.

                “Oh, alright. Have a good night.” The kid says and Dean slumps down the hall, trying not to take notice of how the air conditioning makes his skin feel like ice.

                Dean finds their room and slides the key card into the slot before shouldering open the door. Of fucking course. Only one queen-sized bed was there. Dean lets his duffle slide off his shoulder before tossing it onto the bed, causing the springs to squeak. He peels off his coat and plaid over-shirt, laying them over the back of the office chair to drip-dry. “I’m gonna turn down the A/C.” he says with a shiver, walking over to the thermostat and adjusting it. Castiel nods, sitting on the edge of the maroon, yellow, and blue Aztec comforter on the bed and pulling his muddy shoes from his feet.

                Dean fiddles with the dial for a few seconds before setting the temperature to seventy-eight instead of sixty-five. He squishes through the room in his wet socks, pretending he doesn’t notice Castiel tracking his movements. “Can we talk for a moment?” Castiel asks finally.

                Dean looks up from observing the small paper telling what stations their box television could receive. “Uh, yeah. Yes. What’s up?” Dean asks, leaning back to sit on the edge of the turquoise, wooden stand that the TV sat on. His feet are extended before him, crossed at the ankle. Dangerously close to Castiel’s own sock feet.

                Castiel looks up from fiddling with his wet coat’s hem—a habit he had picked up in his time as a human—and says, “You’re avoiding me.”

                “What? No I’m not.” Dean scoffs, making it a point to look at the man across from him when he says this. His eyes drop a millisecond after because his heart does that weird flippy thing it always does whenever he looks at Castiel. “And why are you still wearing that coat? It’s soaking wet. You’ll catch cold.” He tries to divert the conversation.

                “I am not susceptible to human illnesses.”

                “Oh, right. Well, I still have to sleep on that bed and I’d rather it not be wet and cold.”

                “What is troubling you, Dean?” Castiel asks, slipping his arms from the coat.

                This conversation is getting dangerously close to uncharted and risky territory. He’s about to uncover all the buried feelings Dean has so carefully hidden and ignored and denied all these years. Dean bites his bottom lip nervously, watching as Castiel pulls the trench and overcoat off and tosses them on top of Dean’s wet clothes on the chair.

                “Nothing. I’m just _cold_ and have a headache so!”

                Castiel sends him a skeptical look as he unbuttons his white shirt.

                “Can you just mojo us dry? I’m fucking freezing, man.” Dean complains.

                “Are you sure you want me to deplete my energy stores for such a menial task?” Castiel nearly growls, clearly annoyed with Dean’s behavior as he tosses his white shirt on the floor. “It will take time to recharge and what if something happens in the night?”

                Dean groans loudly, annoyed as well. Mostly with himself. “Fine. Fine!” He stands and moves towards the bed when Castiel is finished pulling on a tee shirt. One of Dean’s tee shirts. That he looks extremely hot in. Life isn’t fair. “Let me just change into dry clothes.”

                But Castiel stands, too, shoulders squared as he blocks Dean from reaching for the bag. “Not before you tell me what is wrong.”

                “Cas, for the _love_ of--!” Dean frowns.

                “Did I do something wrong?!” Castiel yells and a stab of pain goes through Dean’s overly-sensitive head. “I’m sorry if stopping annoyed you that much! You could have just told me no!”

                “What..?” Dean barely breathes out, surprised that he thinks that Dean is throwing a tantrum because of Castiel when it’s really his own fucked up emotions.

                But Castiel keeps going. “I don’t understand all your human ways! I didn’t learn much aside from sarcasm and literary references! So, _please_ , enlighten me as to what I did that is upsetting you so much! I am truly sorry for whatever it is! Did I say something wrong?”

                “Cas, it’s not anything you said.” Dean grumbles, hands moving to press his throbbing temples.

                “Then what?!” Castiel isn’t letting up, bowing forward so he and Dean are practically nose-to-nose. His voice is so annoyed that it’s taking on the shrill, powerful sound of reverberating grace. “Was it the rain?! Because—“

                “YOU!” Dean shouts, scrunching his eyes closed from the painful pressure building in his skull and pounding in his heart. He digs the heels of his hands into his temples harder as he coughs up, “It’s just… you.”

                He opens his eyes and Castiel looks as though he’s been slapped across the face.

                “ _No_. No, no, no,” Dean laments, shaking his head slightly. “It’s… You’re not—it’s my fault. I just… I can’t be around you, man. I’m… It makes me…fuck.” he’s fumbling and each word rolling from his lips is as poorly picked as the one before it. He scrunches his face again, feeling another stab ricocheting through his mind.

                “What are you trying to say, Dean?” Castiel’s voice is guarded, but his emotions must be running as high as Dean’s because the lamp at the bedside flashes blindingly bright.

                “I’m… gonna throw up, man.” Dean manages to groan he doubles over, scrabbles for the small wastebasket on the floor, and chokes up his lunch into it.

                “Dean?!” Castiel’s hands are on his shoulders, voice worried.

                “I’m sorry,” Dean wretches, feeling his stomach roll again and tears spring into his eyes. “Bathroom.”

                Castiel helps guide him to the restroom and it flicks on the light. The white porcelain and loud yellow and red color palette glare angrily at Dean before he clutches the sides of the toilet—he was _so_ dousing himself in sanitizer after this—and vomiting into the bowl. Castiel is flustering at his side, asking him a million questions about hex bags, curses, after-effects from losing the Mark, and spells. Dean sinks to his knees, still hovering over the white porcelain that is reflecting the shitty, fluorescent lights into Dean’s eyes.

                “Turn off the lights, please,” he mutters, sitting back and leaning against the cool porcelain tub.

                Castiel acquiesces before coming to squat in front of Dean, forearms resting on his knees. Dean closes his eyes, tipping his head back over the ledge of the tub. He hears Castiel say his name, but doesn’t open his eyes. Seeing Castiel in the low light with his cheekbones and eyelashes … it is not what he needs right now. “Okay, let’s get you off the bathroom floor.” Castiel’s voice is concerned and he can feel the angel looping his arm behind him.

                “M’kay,” Dean groans as he gets to his feet, pausing momentarily as a wave of nausea rolls through his body. He crinkles his face up when he opens his eyes to walk. He’s still pretty cold and leans into the warmth of Castiel’s touch slightly. He shuffles slowly, stopping to turn off the light before letting Castiel lead him to the bed.

                He crawls up under the down comforter, pulling a fluffy pillow over his head. He hears the soft thump of Castiel moving his duffel to the ground. Dean silently prays that Castiel won’t ask him anything else, will forget this all happened, will let him succumb to sleep and continue burying his feelings for the rest of forever. But, of course, he feels the bed dip and peeks out from under the pillow to see Castiel sitting beside him, eyes focused on him worryingly. He pulls the pillow over his eyes again and rolls over, his back to the angel.

                “Dean, please, tell me what’s wrong so I can heal you?” Castiel’s hand is on his shoulder again.

                “I have a migraine.” Dean mutters.

                “What’s that?”

                “It’s like the evil twin brother of a headache.”

                “Oh, alright. I can heal that easily.” Castiel whispers so as not to hurt Dean’s head any more.

                Dean shifts away from the hand on his shoulder. “No, don’t waste your juice on me.” He groans, wishing he could accept the offer of healing, but he won’t let Castiel drain his batteries on something this stupid. “I can deal with this.”

                “You’re in pain.”

                Dean mumbles his usual lie, “I’m fine.”

                “But this migraine is causing you to be uncomfortable around me… You said I was the problem..?” Castiel replies, voice soft.

                “Cas, can we talk about this later?” Dean winces from the hurt in his friend’s voice, but he really can’t talk about this right now. Not with his head feeling like a balloon filled with too much air, a hair’s breadth away from exploding. It throbs behind his eyes and he curls in on himself more, shivering and pulling the comforter around him tighter.

                He hears a zipper and some shuffling before he feels Castiel pulling the covers off him. He groans as the light from the lamp across the room assaults him. “Cas, what are you—“ Dean begins, but the touch of two fingers to his forehead silences him. The familiar, crisp feeling of grace flows through him, focusing on the ache in his head, flowing around the pain until it is gone. His pain is gone as is the taste of bile in his mouth—his mouth is minty fresh. Dean opens his eyes slowly and looks at his friend, muttering, “Cas… you shouldn’t waste your grace on me.”

                Castiel gives him a sad smile and says, “You need to change out of your wet clothes or you will catch a cold.”

                “Oh, right.” Dean nods, taking the Aerosmith shirt and pair of black boxer briefs Castiel is holding out to him before standing. He shimmies out of his wet jeans, tossing them onto the floor before peeling off his shirt. The room is still cold and his exposed skin reacts with the prickling of goosebumps. He shifts on his feet and toes off his socks, looking to Castiel and asks, “Uh, can you… not watch me change my underwear?”

                Castiel rolls his eyes as if this was an outlandish question, but complies, turning away from Dean. Dean pulls off the wet briefs he had been wearing before pulling on the dry underwear and shirt. He falls back onto the bed, pulling the covers up to his shoulders. Castiel turns back to him, asking, “What is wrong that you are uncomfortable around me?”

                “I… Cas, I suck at this shit.”

                “What shit?”

                “Talking about… this. My feelings.” Dean explains, watching as Castiel raises one eyebrow. Dean sits up in bed, letting the comforter fall into a puddle in his lap as he crosses his legs. “It’s… There’s nothing wrong with you, Cas. You gotta believe me when I say that you are doing _nothing_ wrong. It’s just… I’ve got some… something I have to deal with. I mean, we’re friends, right?”

                Castiel nods earnestly. “Yes.”

                “Well, some of my feelings may fuck that up and I don’t wanna do that.”

                “What feelings? Do you harbor ill-will against me? What did I do? I’ll fix it.” Castiel asks, eyes pleading and big and so blue. Like oceans or the sky.

                “Cas, it’s not your fault! It’s—I just--!” Dean’s throat closes up at the thought of expressing how he feels. “I-I just really like you, man!” he finally stammers out, cheeks searing pink. “A lot.”

                “Why does that make you uncomfortable? I like you a lot as well..?”

                “Ohmigod. I mean, I… I am… attracted to you.” Dean forces out the words, face and neck heating up until he is beet red.

                “Oh,” Castiel’s eyebrows raise and a smile is suddenly on his face.

                “Ugh,” Dean wants to die of embarrassment. He falls back onto the bed, hiding under the comforter again. “Please, just... You don’t have to do anything about it. I can just… ignore it.” His words are muffled under the covers.

                “Dean, do you know why I like thunderstorms?”

                “What? What are you talking about?”

                “They are untamed and extraordinary. The lightning is bright and magnificent—powerful. And they are miracles, truly.” Castiel is saying and Dean is starting to wonder what brought this Weather Channel update on until Castiel finishes with, “They remind me of you.”

                He feels Castiel moving on the bed and, suddenly, the angel is under the covers with him, smiling at him like they were the only two in the world under the Aztec prints of a blanket fort. “Uh…” Dean articulately says, still blushing. He doesn’t know what Castiel is saying and the man’s big, blue eyes are making his mind blank.

                Castiel reaches forwards, taking his hand and Dean suddenly understands the comparison to storms. Because the electricity he feels from the simple touch is lightning. The smile on Castiel’s face is a cool breeze sending shivers down Dean’s spine. His eyes are blue and swirling and they are the skies—rain or shine, they are the heavens that Dean can always count on. And this storm is a miracle and he knows he’s gaping at Castiel, staring like nobody’s business, but he can’t look away. Castiel scoots closer and Dean feels himself move, too. Hesitantly winding their legs together, reaching with his free hand to tentatively touch Castiel’s still-damp hair that is drying in messy curls. Castiel lies still for this, letting Dean get used to this. Get accustomed to their closeness. Get used to being able to touch what he had thought was out of reach for so long. He looks at Castiel’s face, at his fanning lashes and stubble and lips… Dean’s tongue darts out to lick his own.

                “Cas…” he breathes nervously, feeling his cheeks flaming once again. “Can I… Can we, uh…?”

                And Castiel moves. He presses their lips together, slow and sweet at first. Dean’s eyes flit closed and he kisses back, thinking of how crazy this is. He whines a bit when Castiel pulls away to breathe—he’ll deny that the needy noise _ever_ escaped him, though. Castiel smiles and presses their lips together again, soft and refreshing. He opens his mouth to Castiel, letting the angel lick his way inside. They press together, lips and bodies flush and hands in each other’s hair and fisting shirts. And Dean lets himself be engulfed by this storm.

 


End file.
